


The case of the missing doctor

by bubblegumandmusic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Worried Sherlock, not season 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblegumandmusic/pseuds/bubblegumandmusic
Summary: When John goes missing, Sherlock has to face his worst fears in search for him.





	1. Déjà vu

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> This is my very first fiction on archive forums and also my very first multi chapter fic.  
> As English isn't my native language and as I am fairly new at writing in general, constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged with open arms. I will try to post once a week on Mondays, maybe more often.  
> Feel free to follow my tumblr for info about future updates (same name as here).  
> Hope you enjoy! <3

Missing.

A tiny, seemingly harmless word when out of context. But it struck him like lighting when Mycroft spoke the words "John Watson is" in front of it.

Everything started to spin. His mind started picturing John, alone, hurt, scared. When he pulled himself together enough to speak he practically screamed.

"Missing?! You have an outrageous amount of CCTV cameras all over London and someone goes missing?!"

"Sherlock, calm down. Just li.." But he was cut of by Sherlock.

"No! I will not calm down. You are going to leave and then you are going to find him."

"Sherlock..."

"Fuck off Mycroft!"

He slammed the door behind him as soon as Mycroft stepped outside. He started pacing  around the living room, thinking.

This was all his fault. If he hadn't made John angry yesterday he wouldn't have walked out of the flat. Then he wouldn't have dissappeared. Stupid! He knew John’s ways of dealing with anger. Go out, take a walk, come back.

But he hadn't come back. Sherlock assumed he had stayed at Lestrade's or something. Stupid! He should have suspected something, texted him. But he had still seen John's frustrated and hurt face when he had stormed out. He hadn't wanted to upset him more so he hadn't texted him.

 

The whole argument had been stupid anyway. John had come home from the clinic finding Sherlock focused on dissecting an octopus. Ink was smeared on the table and when he found three other octopuses in the fridge (one which had fallen victim to the torch) he lost it.

It's not like Sherlock hadn't had worse things in the fridge but John had had a shitty day at the clinic, clearly visible from the creases in his forehead hand the tension in his shoulders, and Sherlock should have seen it coming.

But then Sherlock had called him an idiot for not understanding the importance of it while also claiming that he never would. That's when the hurt appeared on John’s face and that's also when Sherlock started to feel sick. He hated that look, especially when it was directed at him.

 

Now he went to his laptop, opened it with unnecessary force and checked his emails while desperately trying to push down the rising feeling of worry (and failing). When nothing interesting was found he slammed it shut and sat in his chair.

When he looked at the chair opposite of his, he felt his chest clench. Closing his eyes helped a bit so he did that, then he placed his hands underneath his chin and went into his mind palace.

 

There it was chaos. With John God knows were his mind seemed to loose all sense of logic. Everything he had so neatly organised was suddenly somewhere else and the wing he secretly had stored everything about John in was even worse.

 

He spent a considerable amount of time rearranging the memories and calming himself down. John always had that effect on him. Calming.

He tried to figure out who could have taken him, and to what purpose. Not an easy task, he had to admit.

 

It could be someone that wanted money, if that was the case, a ransom would present itself very soon.

It could be an enemy of John’s. Someone from before or someone that Sherlock had made him. Either way, it didn't look good if that was the case.

Maybe someone that wants leverage. He remembered Magnussen and his pressure points. Hurt Mary and you can get to Mycroft. That must mean that hurting John will give the same results.

Or it was someone who wanted to hurt Sherlock, well if that was it they were definitely succeeding.

 

He was starting to panic again when he joined the real world. He thought about Moriarty and his threat at the pool. "I'll burn the heart out of you." Even after all these years the words haunted him. Ringing in his ears every time he gave in. Gave in to the feelings he so closely guarded.

John was his heart, and that Magnussen had put him in a bonfire seemed way to telling.

 

To try and clear his head he went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water in his face. He caught his own eyes in the mirror. He looked awful. Eyes that screamed with fear and his skin more pale than ever. The dark circles under his eyes were larger than this morning and his hair was a mess.

 

When he felt a little bit better he walked back into the living room to make some tea.

 

He should have known that it wouldn't last. The fragile thing he and John had built up after the disappointing paternity test and the messy divorce. He should have known he wouldn't be lucky enough to spend the rest of his life with the man he loved most in the world. First Moriarty, then Mary and now this.

Well, it could very well be Mary behind this. She had looked devastated when John had found out about her shooting Sherlock. And she had looked equally devastated when he had received the paternity test.

Despite her past she seemed to love John. It wasn't a healthy love though. It was selfish. She had said it herself. She would do anything to keep John from leaving.

 

The thought of that conversation always made Sherlock see red. She didn't deserve John, not even a little bit. But John seemed to love her so Sherlock hadn't tried to destroy it (like he had with John’s past girlfriends). He wanted John to be happy.

 

But what if it was Mary. Would she really hurt John like that? Was she forced to? By who?

It couldn't be Magnussen, Sherlock had made sure of that.

Moriarty was dead, right? Though he hadn't checked his pulse.

Maybe he had pulled a Ricoletti and faked it. Sherlock had suspected that since he solved the Ricoletti case on the plane. He hadn't told John though. He didn't want to worry him

 

'Okay, be logical about this! Moriarty shot himself in the head. No curtains for others to stand behind, no second gun to fire in the floor. No need to worry.'

That's what he told himself. Stressing out wouldn't help John at all. Said John had been missing for 6 hours now.

'How the hell did 3 hours pass so quickly??' He made a note in his head to keep better track of time in his mindpalace when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with a thick envelope. He took it without a word.

 

The handwriting suggested male. Written in a hurry, he had used a ballpoint pen, blue ink. Sherlock tore it open and his breath stuck in his throat. He heard Mrs Hudson say something but he was to stunned to respond.

Inside the yellow envelope was something that made his blood freeze to ice in his veins, his stomach flip and his heart pound at the same time.

 

A phone. A pink phone.


	2. Memory lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins for real. Sherlock takes a trip down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking, screw schedules. I will post at least once a week but most likely more often.  
> Just like last time, constructive feedback is welcomed!  
> Hope you like it <3

He took it in his hand and turned it over. Almost identical to the phone Moriarty sent him all those years ago. His hand was trembling now, no scratch that. All of him was trembling. He felt dizzy and he vaguely registered walking back to his chair and sitting in it. The rising feeling of panic did nothing to improve the situation.

But this was about John! He knew it had too be. So with shaking fingers he turned the phone on. At first glance, there was nothing on it. No missed calls, no contacts, no search history. But there was a recorded audiofile. He made sure to turn the sound on and pressed play.

*pip* *pip* *piiip*

"Hello." It was a little boy that spoke. He couldn’t be older than 8 and his voice was shaking. The familiarity sent chills down his spine and 221B suddenly felt very lonely.

"I have a new puzzle for you. I'm guessing you remember the last one. The one where I promised to burn the heart out of you, this time, I will succeed." Sherlock didn't breathe. He sat there, mind suddenly completely blank. When the boy spoke again, he felt the panic fill his veins once more.

"You might be surprised to hear from me again. I'm dead, right? I shot myself, right? Well Sherlock, everything isn't always as it seems. Oh, and don't worry about the boy. He will be sent free as soon as you complete my task. A little hint, look at the pictures." Then the recording was over. Shit.

'How had he survived?? He shot himself in the head!'

No, he couldn’t think about that now, he had to focus on finding John. He clicked on the phone's gallery and found a single picture. A swimming pool. And not just any pool, the same one where Powers had died, the same one where he had found John strapped in enough explosives to blow up half the street.

 

He didn't even register his body moving, it seemed to be working on autopilot. It caught a cab and shouted an adress while Sherlock was thinking about something else. What could the task be? What would Moriarty want him to do?

He didn't have much more time until the cab stopped. He threw the cabbie some money and dashed out. The doors were unlocked.

"Hello?" he said, feeling incredibly stupid. When no answer came he walked the small distance to the edge of the pool. The strong smell of chlorine filled his nostrils.

He thought about his first case, the disappointment when the police hadn't taken him seriously. Then he thought about the time he went to confront Moriarty for the first time. The fear when he for one millisecond had considered the thought that maybe John had been behind it all.

 

This place was nothing but proof that sentiment was only going to hurt him. But he found that he didn't really care. It was John. His John, the only person he had ever loved (even if John didn't know it). He found that what he felt didn't really matter as long as his John could be happy and safe.

Of course, he had decided that the moment he realised John was about to propose to Mary (even if John didn't know it. When he thought about it, he had done a lot of things that John didn't know).

That's when he got a phone call. On the pink phone. When he picked up it was the little boy again.

"Hello Sherlock, the clue was quite easy right? Just walk to the other side of the pool. Do you see the gun?" Sherlock saw it, picked it up and checked it. One bullet.

"Good, go into the men's dressing room." He did and what met him was something he definitely hadn't expected. A red dog. A puppy really. It looked exactly like Redbeard. A pang of longing struck him. The dog was tied to one of the benches and was trying to run towards him. Then the boy spoke again.

"One dog, one bullet. I'm sure you can do the math. Do this and I will send the boy to you. If you don't, both him and your beloved John will die."

He took a deep breath. He had figured it out the moment he had entered the dressing room. He whispered a small apology, aimed, closed his eyes, hesitated for a millisecond and pulled the trigger. The dog fell to the ground without a sound. Sherlock was sure it hadn't felt a thing, judging by the location of the bullet, but guilt still washed over him. Made him feel sick.

"Well, that wasn't so hard was it? He is on his way." and with that, the call ended. Thankful that he was still wearing gloves he went out, threw the gun I the pool in pure frustration and went outside to greet the boy. Damn.

 

He thought about the time he had had with Redbeard. About his 8th birthday when his parents gave him the little puppy. He had started school. Nobody liked him. He didn't really care, they were idiots anyway.

Well, the first year of school had been okay. He had even enjoyed it. He had found a friend, her name was Sofie, and she wasn't as stupid as all the others. But after a while he managed to hurt her. She had run of to the teachers, crying. After that she barely talked to him if it wasn't to insult him.

That's when his parents got him Redbeard. It was the best years of his childhood. Coming home after a shitty day in school and finding Redbeard, full of joy as always, running towards him with ears flapping and tongue sticking out of his mouth. It lasted until his 13th birthday.

He was home from school but Redbeard didn't show up as he usually did. He had been worried and ran inside. There he found his parents with strange looks on their faces.

"Where is Redbeard?" he asked. His mother told him that Redbeard had been In an accident when he ran across the road. That's all she had time to tell him before he ran up to his room. He locked himself in and didn't come out until morning. Mycroft talked to him a few days later.

"Caring is not an advantage, I told you that. Remember?" And he thought that maybe Mycroft was right. 

So the years went by and he practically threw himself into his books. He spent hours upon hours in the library bent over whichever book had caught his eye. He refined his deduction skills, practicing every time he looked at someone. If he couldn’t help being bullied, he would absolutely have something to throw back at them.

When he looked back at it now, he envied his younger self. The naive, happy little boy he had been. And what a mess he had become. The drugs he had started with in university hadn't exactly helped.

John helped though. He made Sherlock want to be better. Actually want to. Because with John, Sherlock had a friend, a supporter, a helping hand. That and all the other things he valued John for. He had someone who he wanted to impress, someone to live for.

 

He was starting to lose himself in memories of John when a black car with tinted windows pulled up. A young boy with blond hair jumped out of it and ran towards Sherlock. His cheeks were streaky and his lips were trembling. Sherlock sat down, greeted the boy and held him to his chest. It felt strange, to have a complete stranger trust him so. He felt terrified but also a little moved.

"Hello, what's your name?" he asked. Trying to calm the boy down while he fished his phone out of his pocket and dialing Lestrade's number.

"Jack" the boy answered.

"Well Jack, everything is going to be just fine. I'm calling someone who can give us a ride. Is that okay?" he said. He tried to talk as calmly as possible and using simple words. Not very easy but Jack didn't seem to notice. Lestrade answered and he briefly explained the situation.

"Okay, can you take me home?" he asked.

"I sure can. But first, we are taking you to your parents. They are waiting at the police station." While waiting he talked to Jack about school, friends, hobbies and everything else that went through the mind of an 8 year old. He found himself enjoying it. Jack didn't think that Sherlock was strange or a freak. He just talked. The boy's eyes were deep blue and combined with the light hair he closely resembled John. That pang of longing struck him again and he couldn’t let go of the thought that Moriarty had chosen him for that specific reason.

 

When Lestrade had picked them up and driven them to the station, Jack thanked Sherlock (so did his parents), hugged him and hopped into his parents car. Before Lestrade could ask Sherlock anything he walked out and got into a cab. He didn't have time to explain, and what if something happened to John if he went to the police?

John. The brutal pain had been numbed by Jack's joy and replaced by a more managable longig but now it came back. If Moriarty's first task had been to shoot an innocent animal that brought up awful memories from his past, what on earth could the next two be.

Last time, it had only been about cases. This time, it seemed to be about Sherlock. "Burn the heart out of you". It was going to be about his past and his feelings.

Moriarty was going to destroy him. And Sherlock would let him, if it kept John alive.


	3. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is John's side of the story?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! It's been a busy week.  
> It's barely edited, it kind of just kept flowing out as I wrote it.  
> Anyway, enjoy <3

The first thing he felt was pain somewhere on the left side of his head. It made him wince as he opened his eyes and found that he was in a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of paint.

The second thing he noticed was that his hands and feet were bound and that he was sitting on a cold concrete floor. There was one window on the wall opposite of him were a small ray of moonlight shone through and landed on the floor.

He wondered if he could escape that way but quickly realised that the window was way to small and very high up. But he could see grass. Basement then, he thought. The only door was probably locked and honestly, his bound limbs didn't really improve the situation.

'What would Sherlock have done?' he thought. Well, there was no way to get out of the room, but if he could get free from his bonds, the situation would at least be a bit more comfortable. He tried to wiggle out his hands, that didn't work. Neither did his feet. Maybe he could find something sharp. He looked around and at the same time he heard footsteps. They stopped at the other side of the door, then unlocked it.

"Will you look at that. He's awake!" The last sentence was almost sung and he felt a rush of fear as he realised who that sing-song voice belonged to. At the same time, the man in question stepped into the middle of the room. Dressed in a slim, black suit and white button-down with the black hair combed backwards he looked identical to the last time John had seen him all dressed up. But the eyes, they seemed to have sunk into his head and it made him look even crazier.

"But, y.. you're dead." he managed to get out. His voice was rough and shaky.

"Not quite. Now, while you've been napping, for approximately 2 hours, no-one have noticed your absence. Though Sherlock should get worried quite soon and when he does, I'm intending to have some fun." While he continued to talk about Sherlock, John managed to loosen the knots tying his hands together behind his back. The rope was cutting into his wrists but he kept going, looking around the room at the same time in search for a weapon. Moriarty noticed of course.

"Don't even try it, doctor." he said with a cold laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. With a snapping of his fingers, two muscular people walked towards him, lifted him up by his forearms and pulled the rest of the rope away from his hands. When they pressed him up against the wall he grunted in pain.

"I am playing another little game with Sherlock. You are a part of it, just like last time. Won't that be fun?" he said. John forced himself to open his eyes and look straight into Moriarty's despite the pain in his head. He tried to show him all of the hate and disgust he felt in one single look, not knowing if he succeeded or not.

"Tie him up again, then wait for further instructions." He stayed silent as they tied the ropes again and almost threw him to the floor with no mercy what so ever. He gave them a deadly glare as they walked out. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Sherlock would come for him, he knew that much. But he had walked out though. He hadn't said when he would be back. Sherlock was probably more hurt than he would ever admit right now. He mentally punched himself and tried to remind himself to be more careful with Sherlock.

'High functioning sociopath my arse' he thought while he shifted a bit in a failed attempt to get more comfortable.

Sherlock had always been avoiding emotions. Not that it was a good thing but he had always done it. But as they got closer, John noticed how the carefully built walls started to fade. He had had the privilege to get to know Sherlock. Not just the Sherlock that the public knew, but the real Sherlock. The Sherlock who played the violin at 3 in the morning when John had nightmares in order to wake him up, the Sherlock who made tea, bought groceries and cleaned the fridge when he knew John had had a bad day. The Sherlock who giggled with him in inappropriate places and about inappropriate things. The Sherlock who's mouth turned into an adorable V-shaped smile lined with pride when he made John laugh.

 

But then, Mary came. Wonderful, sweet, caring, manipulative, lying, terrible Mary. Who stumbled into his life just when he needed someone stable. Who numbed the pain and grief.

He had loved her. He really had. But he knew the moment he saw the bottle of Claire de la lune and understood its meaning. He knew that their marriage was over. He would have left her right there. Make Mycroft deal with the papers and moved out as soon as possible.

But there had been a baby. He could never leave his own child in her hands. So he had stayed. Hating himself and hating Mary. And hurting Sherlock in the process. But the baby had been born and Mary had one last secret. The baby wasn’t his. Why she had kept quiet he didn't know. She had secretly taken a paternity test with the man she had been cheating on him with. She showed him the papers a few days after the birth. He had taken one look at them, turned and walked out. She didn't try to stop him.

 

He hadn't had destination but somehow he ended up at Bakerstreet. He had walked inside using the spare key he still had and when he entered, Sherlock just looked at him. He hadn't said a word. But he had made tea, led John to his chair and pressed the warm cup into his shaky hands, then he had turned to pick up his violin and played a beautiful piece.

John hadn't cried, he hadn't talked and he hadn't moved. When Sherlock stopped, John was still sitting there. He had obviously deduced it immediately. But he hadn't asked, hadn't questioned and John would be forever grateful for that.

When Sherlock had put the violin away, he had taken the cup of cold tea from John’s hands and reached a hand out for John to take. John had been puzzled but Sherlock had seemed confident and he really hadn't had the energy to care.

When they were both standing, Sherlock had carefully put his arms around him. It had taken a while for John to react but eventually he had leaned into the touch and fisted his hands in his friend's soft dressing gown. He had buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and just breathed.

When a few tears had landed on Sherlock's skin, the arms around him had tightened as a sob slipped out of John’s throat. He didn't remember how long they had been standing there but when he took a step back, brushed away the tears with the back of his hand and looked at Sherlock, his gaze was filled with care and concern.

He had said that the bedroom upstairs was livable and added that John could stay for as long as he wanted.

John hadn't left. He had picked up his stuff from the other flat a few days later and returned home.

To him, Bakerstreet had always been home. He woke from his daydream with the feeling of Sherlock’s arms around him by a bang.

The door had been opened again and he was expecting Moriarty again. But no, it wasn't Moriarty.

It was Mary.


	4. Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock recieves the 2nd task and has to face the threat of the deamons from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter!  
> You know the deal by now, constructive feedback is very welcomed!  
> Hope you enjoy!

He hadn't eaten properly in 3 days. He had barely slept. He often found himself trying to remember John. How he looked in the morning, dressed in comfy pjs and messy hair, how he looked when Sherlock complemented him, his eyes full of pride and adoration, how he looked after a chase through London, with adrenalin rushing and joy in his eyes.  
This was one of those times. He was sprawled on the sofa thinking about John while constantly reminding himself that he definitely shouldn't be thinking about John.  
John Hamish Watson.  
John Watson.  
John.  
His John.  
Beautiful, caring, brave John with his striking, deep blue eyes and soft jumpers. John.  
  
His John. Something he decided to call John in his head. It was the only thing that he thought was fitting. But now, his John was missing. He had been gone for exactly 3 days, 5 hours, 12 minutes and 2 seconds. 3. 4. 5.  
It was an internal clock that wouldn't stop counting.  
John was missing, kidnapped and held hostage by Moriarty himself. Sherlock was going to do anything to get his John back, he had already forced himself to shoot a dog. A dog that looked exactly like Readbeard. It had been painful, but it was going to be worth it. That's what he kept telling himself anyway. Whatever he had to do, it would be worth it for John.  
  
Somewhere in the flat, a phone rang. He rose from the sofa and checked his own. It wasn't ringing. That's when it struck him. The pink phone!  
He almost ran across the room and picked up.  
  
*pip* *piiip*  
  
"Hello Mr Holmes." the person on the other end of the line said. It was a young girl this time. Probably about 8, like the boy in the last task.  
"You got an easy one last time. I asure you this will be more challenging. I will send you a picture, just figure out where to go and I will call you when you get there." the girl continued. The call ended before he had uttered a single syllable. He slowly lowered the phone, images of a hurt John still flashing in his mind.  
When the text alert sounded, he clicked on the image. It was of a darkened alley. a single streetlight emitted a warm, yellow light that shone on a few crates and a blue door. There was a graffiti on the door, he zoomed in to see it better and when he did, his breath stuck in his throat. In bold, black letters, the word "Freak" was scribbled.  
He remembered that alley, knew it better than his own hand. He had spent to many drug induced nights there to delete it from his mind. The graffiti had been put there by himself, a reminder of his worth according to the rest of the world.  
He pocketed the phone, wrapped the scarf carefully around his neck and put the coat on.  
  
Once again, his body seemed to move on its own. But instead of racing, his mind was completely blank with fear. He could feel and hear his pounding heart in his ears and he could see his fingers shaking as he opened the front door.

~~~  
  
When the cab pulled up and when he threw some money at him, he walked out and abruptly stopped. Everything was quiet. There was no traffic on the dark Street behind him and the chilly autumn night was making him shiver lightly.  
The phone rang again. Before he could say anything, the little girl was talking.  
"Hi again, you know the deal by now. Finish my task and I will set the girl free. And you will at the same time be closer to find your 'live in one'"  
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, the uneasy feeling in his stomach increasing.  
"In the crate beneath the street lamp there is a little gift for you. Something that will remind you of this place. Use all of it and wait, only then will I send the girl to you."  
The call ended and he walked on wobbly legs towards the crate. His eyes fell on the word on the door. He tried to ignore it while he crouched and removed the lid. The content made him recoil and his hands shake even more. The bottom of the small crate was covered in a red fabric. On top of it was a single syringe filled with a colourless liquid. He picked it up and turned it in his fingers, no colour and no scent. It was impossible to deduce it's content.  
  
He found himself wondering why the hell he was doing this. Then he almost kicked himself. 

'For John of course, you idiot!' 

Always for John, but what if John got angry with him because of this? It wouldn't matter.  A world with a living and angry John would be infinitely better that a world without John.  
John.  
'No!' he couldn't fall into the deep pit of sentiment now. He had to do this, it was the only way.  
He quickly rolled up his sleave and walked towards a bigger crate to sit on. He took a deep breath, struggled a bit in the dim light in his search for a vein, positioned the syringe and slowly inserted it. He breathed again and started to push the unknown liquid into his blood.  
  
He sat there, alone on a crate in an alley, waiting. He kept waiting. He must have waited in nearly half an hour when the realisation hit him like a train. He hadn't known what was in the syringe. What if it had been water? What if it had been a poison that wouldn't be felt until it was too late. But no, that was wrong. Moriarty didn't want him dead. At least not yet. He wanted to burn his heart out by making him face himself. Something he had had to do for a while now.  
There was still the possibility that the drug(s?) hadn't kicked in yet. But the most possible explanation was that he had been fooled.  
  
He sat there, waiting for the rush that never came. He started to get really anxious at the 2-hourmark.  
What if he had done something wrong? What if John would get hurt because of him?  
He was almost drowning in worry and despair when a black car pulled up and a little girl with flaming, red hair and a face covered in freckles jumped out of it.  
The relief was so overwhelming that he was unable to move and hadn't even seen the girl running towards him until she threw her arms around him. He held her until they both stopped shaking and then he tried to talk to her.  
He called Lestrade, was picked up and left the station before questions could be asked. 

~~~

  
When he entered the flat and checked the time, it was 23.45 and Mycroft had called him 12 times. He had probably seen the CCTV cameras and come to the conclusion that Sherlock was currently high. He wrote an explanation (saying it was for a case and that he hadn't actually taken anything) though he didn't have high hopes to be rid of his brother just yet.  
  
He sat down in his chair after shedding the coat and scarf and stapled his fingers beneath his chin.  
He had been scared today. Mostly because he had started to realise what he would do for John. It should have been obvious to him earlier (he had actually shot a man for him) but it had all been so natural. He hadn't actually thought much about the consequences, just acted. But Moriarty forced him to consciously make sacrifices for John and made him realise that he would make these choices no matter what.  
  
It scared the hell out of him, now that there was only one call left to receive and one more task to complete. How it would end he didn't know, but he knew he couldn’t follow Moriarty's rules this time. If he did, John would suffer for it. He was his heart after all.


	5. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is back and John recieves some interesting information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a short one but oh well.  
> Another one from John's pov, enjoy!<3
> 
> A quick trigger warning, some mild torture in this one, not grusome but I figured I should warn you anyway.

He stared for a long time, then he stared a bit more. Words failed him as he repetedly opened and closed his mouth, only managing to utter a few syllables.

Mary (or whatever her real name was) was standing in front of him. Her hair was still blonde, a bit longer though, and she was wearing her usual red coat. She had a chilling smile on her lips, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You look awful." she said, eyes flicking over him. "I imagine you have a few questions."

"W..well y..yes." he managed to get out.

"No my real name isn't Mary, yes I work for Moriarty, yes I have done that since the beginning. Our first encounter was in fact at the pool where Powers died, I was one of the snipers. Does that cover it all?"

"W..were you a..assigned to me? he asked. Not really wanting to know the answer.

"Yes I was, Moriarty's plan is to destroy Sherlock, what better way than to take away his only friend?" she said, smiling again. It sent a chill down his spine. "And no, I never actually loved you. And yes, the affair started long before I first told you it did." she continued, obviously seeing that he was about to ask.

He didn't like this Mary, evidently this had been the real her all along but it was so different to the kind and steady person he had fallen for. Now, all he felt was anger and betrayal. Not even Sherlock had understood that she had been cheating, or that she was an assassin. She was good, he understood that, but what he didn't know was how good. And he had a funny feeling he was about to find out.

 

Mary started to walk around in the small room, hands clasped on her back.

"He loves you, did you know that?" The words made his heart skip a beat. He had always wished, for years he had longed for the man. But now, when he heard the words, he didn't believe it.

"I'll take that as a no then. I thought you realised, the speech at the wedding, the looks he gives you all the time, the list goes on and on darling. He was head over heels for you from the day you met. He wouldn't offer his home to anyone you know."

He didn't know what to answer, so he kept quiet. In the middle of all of the fear and confusion, somewhere in his chest, a hope was born. A hope he had lost when Sherlock had jumped, a hope that seemed to far away to reach when he married Mary and a hope that had tried to come back when he moved back to Bakerstreet. The warmth in his chest grew, but it wasn't strong enough to push the fear away.

"I have something to show you. A little tape that my colleagues filmed while Sherlock was away." she said with another cold smile and went outside to bring a computer. She placed it in front of him.

He watched, trying and failing to keep a staight face as Sherlock was beaten and burned by two other people with hidden faces. He didn't want to appear weak by looking away, so he forced his eyes to stay focused on the screen. The two people had walked away from Sherlock, one said something in a strange language while another reached for something that looked like a whip.

Sherlock's scream echoed in the room, a horrible, soul-crushing sound that made his blood feel like ice. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out.

Mary noticed, of course, and shut the computer.

"Didn't enjoy that did you? You won't later either, believe me." She walked out and locked the door.

 

'What the hell did she mean?'  
He tried to concentrate but the hunger was makimg it hard. They hadn't given him anything what so ever, barely even water.  
Then it hit him. Mary was assigned to him to hurt Sherlock, they kidnapped him to hurt Sherlock, what is to say that they wouldn't hurt him physically to hurt Sherlock? Remake the torture they put Sherlock through but make him watch someone else get beaten?

His insides seemed to turn at the thought, so he decided to think about Sherlock. Mostly because it calmed him down, telling himself that someone is looking for him.

So he closed his eyes and lost himself in memories. Him and Sherlock leaning on each other while catching their breaths after a case, the sparkle in his eyes (god, those gorgeous eyes) when they laughed.

He found himself smiling, he really did feel quite pathetic, but it didn't matter. No one saw anything anyway.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the thought that maybe, maybe Sherlock loved him back. The logical part of him said that Mary just wanted to tease him for loving someone unattainable, but that hope still burned in his chest.

The smile on his lips lingered as he tried to find a comfortable position to sleep, and when he woke up, it was still there.


	6. Setback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks help, and has to face the consequences...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!  
> I am so so sorry for the delay. I have been quite busy and will continue to be the coming 2 weeks. But I promise to upload new chapters as soon as I can.
> 
> This is quite an angsty one, but far milder than what I have planned for later. It's also quite short, but I hope you won't mind too much.  
> Enjoy<3

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His heart was pounding in his ears, distracting him. A part of him longed for a distraction, but the rest of him screamed at the other part to SHUT UP, WE WILL NOT FAIL JOHN LIKE THAT!

Everything was too much. The lights, the darkness, the sounds, the silence, the touch of furniture and the lack of touch.

 

Without knowing how he got there, he found himself in John's bedroom.

The bed was made with military precision and the only folds present were the ones Sherlock had made whem sitting on it.  
It felt strangely intimate, sitting in John's room alone, surrounded by John's things and scent. Mycroft had called and texted approximately 35 times since the incident yesterday (which hadn't actrually been an incident) and he had ignored them all. He knew that Mycroft would storm into the flat anytime now, so he got up and reluctantly walked away from John's room.

And he was right, not even 10 minutes later, his brother walked into the flat with a strained, but anxious expression on his face.

"I assume you know why I have come here."

"Quite." he answered. "And I should inform you that nothing happened."

"Excuse me?"

He knew that he couldn't outsmart his brother when it came to drug use. So he asked if they could talk somewhere private. Mycroft turned without another word, waved a hand to make Sherlock follow him and walked down the steps.

 

The ride to the diogenes club went by fairly quickly and not long after, he and Mycroft were alone.

"So, explain." Mycroft said, turning towards Sherlock.

"It will take a while.." he said, still worried about possible consequences for John. But when Mycroft kept quiet, he continued. He told the story from the beginning, only skipping the details about his own feelings and reactions to seem a bit better. Even now, he didn't like the disappointment in Mycroft's eyes whenever they discusses his feelings.

Mycroft was quiet for a long time until he said "I understand that it is vital we keep this a secret, both for John's safety and your own. But what do you want me to do about it?"

He thought for a while, trying to find the right words. "I want backup, I want to make sure that we can get John out unharmed while we eliminate Moriarty once and for all."

"Well, I believe that can be arranged."

 

They spent the majority of the afternoon making arrangements. Making mistakes was a big no, hence why they went through everything multiple times. Only a carefully selected few of Mycroft's puppets were allowed to know about the rescue mission, and neither knew the whole picture. Everything to stop future mistakes.

So with nothing more to do, Sherlock took a cab home. Mycroft would be monitoring the flat and the streets around it.

 

When he entered the flat, he instantly felt that something was wrong. It was cold, probably an open window. But the strange thing was that he closed the window he had opened while smoking (please forgive me, John) and no other windows had been opened.

So it was with cautious steps that he walked up the steps and into the room. 2 windows were open, the wind was making various papers fly across the flat. He quickly crossed the room to close them. When he looked towards the wall over the sofa (where he had pinned every piece of information regarding John's disappearance) there was a new addition. A big photo, hanging slightly askew, representing no-one other that the doctor himself.

He was sprawled on what looked like a concrete floor, shirtless. On his chest, just above his heart, there was a burn. It was a bit hard to see in the slightly blurry picture but it was definitely a burn (He had seen enough pictures of burns in his lifetime to recognise it). His hair was covered in blood, making his stomach turn, and a mark on his throat looked like a bruise after being strangled. Furthermore, he looked way too thin and he wondered if they had been trying to starve him.

He took a shaky step backwards. His breath seemed to be stuck in his throat. The picture's meaning was clear as day. It was a threat. A reminder that he shouldn't get help from anyone if he wanted to keep John alive. This must have been done when he and Mycroft talked, somehow without letting it show on the cameras in the flat.

 

He checked the pink phone without result, ealked to the window and smoked half a package.

'John doesn't have to find out.' he thought. He wanted to phone Mycroft, but he wasn't going to. He went to Mycroft today, leading to John being tortured by the looks of it. He grabbed his hair and pulled hard, trying to numb the emotional pain as well as stopping the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

He retreated to the bathroom and turned the water to cold. Only when he was under the water did he let the tears fall. In just a few seconds he was shaking with them.

He toweled himself off, went into his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. He wrapped himself in his cover and was soon asleep after days of being awake. The exhaustion and sadness at last claiming him. 


	7. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's plan is about to reach its peak.

Streaks of sunlight hit his face, waking him up. He checked the time, addind it to his internal clock, set from the day of John's disappearance. 3 weeks, 2 days, 0.5 hours, 5 minutes and 24 seconds.

His whole body ached with longing. John, his John. Alone in the hands of Moriarty while Sherlock was doing everything he could to get him home, which wasn't much to be honest.

 

He forced himself to get up and went to check the pink phone. There was a message containing an adress and a time, nothing else. He felt his heart beating faster, almost trying to punch itself out of his chest.  
He looked up the address, finding that it was an old house located a short distance from London.

With a racing mind and trembling limbs he walked over to the sofa and positioned himself in his "thinking pose".

 

What the hell was he supposed to do this time? How would Moriarty want to burn his heart out?

An unwelcome voice in his head answered almost immediately.  
'By hurting John of course, you idiot.'

 

He spent a considerable amount of time lost in memories of John, something he did frequently these days, and didn't notice Ms Hudson trying to talk to him or Mycroft calling him.

When he emerged, it was time to leave. He went back into his bedroom and changed from his dressing gown to his usual suit and button-up.

 

The ride went by in a blur and he actively ignored Mycroft's attempts at contacting him. He wouldn't risk it this time, his own safety be damned. This was stupid and he knew it, going there without backup.

Mycroft was probably tracking him, meaning that he would come to the right conclusion sooner or later. He was rooting for later, considering John's position.

 

When he was standing outside the house, all alone in the cool evening, he felt afraid again. It bubbled up inside him regardless of his attempts at pushing it away. So he had to go inside anyway.

 

It was quite a messy house. All bricks surrounded by an unkept garden. Some bricks were cracked or crumbling and the door was full of scratches.It could have been pretty at some point he thought.

 

He opened the door which swung up on creaky hinges and was met by a dimly lit hall.

"Well will you look at that! The famous detective, what an honour."

The voice belonged to no one other than James Moriarty himself, half hidden by a doorframe to the right. He must have flipped a light switch for suddenly, the hall was bathing in yellow light that was stinging in his eyes. Moriarty mostly looked like he always had, maybe a few more lines on his face and, if possible, even scarier eyes. A vicious smile was playing on his lips.

"Follow me." he said, turning his back to Sherlock. He did as instructed, every sense on edge. He had a funny feeling that he wouldn't like what he was about to see.

 

Moriarty led him towards the door to the basement. The basement looked quite big, a corridor with what looked like 4 doors on the left side of it. Moriarty didn't go into either of them. Instead, he knocked on the first one.

 

When she stepped out into the light, he felt a stab of confusion that quickly turned into anger, betrayal and fear. Everything packed so tightlyin his chest it made it hard to breathe. Mary (or whatever her name is) was standing in front of him, smirking.

"Look at yourself, all lost without him."  
A thousand questions were flying around in his head, making him dizzy. He felt incredibly stupid, just standing there and not knowing what to say. So he asked the most pressing question.

"Where is he?" he said, keeping his voice low and filled with as much hate as he could manage.

"Waiting, in there." she answered, gesturing towards the first door. He walked past her, making sure to give her a deadly look, and entered the room. What met him almost made him gag.

 

John Watson. John Hamish Watson. His John.

Sitting on the floor in a corner, shirtless, malnourished, bruised and pale. Blood was smeared over the floor, sometimes forming distinct handprints. John's face was turned away from him, his whole body trembling. He had a few cuts on his chest and the burn was distinct.

He took a few steps towards his friend, crouching in front of him. John seemed to recoil at the sound, not yet noticing Sherlock.

"John" he managed to get out, but not managing to keep his voice from cracking.  
John's head turned towards him and his impossibly blue eyes stared at him in disbelief. Sherlock half walked, half dragged himself closer, holding a hand out. John reached out with a shaking arm and took it, releasing a quick (and apparently, held) breath.

"Sher... What.. what are you doing here??" he stuttered, sounding angrier and angrier. "You are going to get us both killed!"

Despite his anger he didn't push Sherlock away, he actually clung to him like his life depended on it and it wasn't long until Sherlock's arms were closed around him.  
'They let him shower.' Sherlock realised with confusion as he breathed in an unfamiliar scent. He didn't like it (it didn't smell like John) but he buried his nose in John's hair nonetheless. That pulled a sob and a shiver from John and he moved a hand to fiddle with John's hair, gently massaging his scalp and neck. Slowly, John started to relax.  
He didn't realise that he was crying until a tear landed in John's hair, and if John noticed, he didn't say.

When John pulled away, he didn't look at Sherlock and he recoiled again when Sherlock reached for him. Like he was embarrassed.

But before Sherlock could ask, the doo swung up and both Mary and Moriarty were standing in front of them.

 

"Stand, both of you." Moriarty demanded, smiling. Sherlock obeyed, but had to support almost all of John's weight to keep him upright. Moriarty nodded at Mary, who moved towards them and pulled John towards her. Realising it was useless to resist, Sherlock let her.

A knife was pressed to John's throat, making Sherlock wince.

"Now, this is what's going to happen. I am going to destroy you, Sherlock. I am going to take the only person you've ever cared about and make you watch when I kill him. Or rather, when Mary kills him, legwork you know." he said, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.

Mary brought the knife to John's face, making a clean cut on his right cheek. A single drop of blood rolled down his face.  
Sherlock felt the anger bubble up in him again. He hoped that his face was straight, but his mind was racing. Trying to figure out how many people there could be here, if he and John (or just John if necessary) could escape or if Mycroft would come.

 

When Mary shifted again, he braced himself. He caught John's eyes, pouring all of his love and regret into that look (not giving a damn if anyone notices) and not expecting the response he got. John looked at him like he had at the pool all those years ago. But there was something else. He couldn't pinpoint what it was and was interrupted by the horrible sound John made.

It was somewhere between a scream and a sob. His body was folding itself over and crumbled to the floor as soon as Mary let go of him.

Sherlock was beside him instantly. He ripped of his scarf and pressed it to the wound.

"John!? John, can you hear me?" he asked. Amazed at the steadiness in his voice. John waved a hand at him as an answer.

Blood was already soaking the scarf and staining his hands. He could hear Moriarty and Mary standing behind him, whispering about something but he paid them no mind. His only focus was John, bleeding out under his hands.

Said John was growing paler every second. His hands were clutched in Sherlock's sleeves and he was trying to say something.

"Shut up! Don't talk!" Sherlock said, adding more pressure and simultaneously making John gasp for breath. He was hurting him, but that couldn't be helped. He needed to keep as much blood as possible inside John.  
Tears were pouring down his cheeks now but he couldn't care less. He heard Moriarty say something again but he ignored him once again.

A single tear fell from John's face and his eyes grew more distant.

"No, no, NO! Don't you dare leave John!" he almost screamed. Then he watched in horror as John drew a raspy breath, his hands slipping from Sherlock's arms and his eyelids fluttered closed.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not) for the cliffhanger!  
> I will make up for it at some point.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like it!


	8. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About when John wakes up at the hospital and what happens next.

He tried in vain to open his eyes the minute he woke up. The light stung and his eyelids felt heavy. The place smelled distinctly like hospital. He breathed and tried to figure out why his stomach was hurting when he realised that something big, warm and solid was lying on top of his right side. He tried to move his right hand to maybe find out what that heavy thing was and it instantly stired.

"John?" Sherlock's voice said, a hand clutching his. His voice was rushed and worried. 'Why worried?'

"Light." he mamaged to croak out. Suddenly, the heavy thing that apparently was Sherlock moved away and the lights were dimmed before he felt the bed(?) dip again.

He slowly, more carefully, opened his eyes. Instead of lying on top of him, Sherlock was now sitting beside him (still on the bed), looking at him. He looked awful.

His hair was messy, he had bags under his eyes and he looked like he could fall asleep anywhere. His eyes shone with concern and his hand had yet again found John's.

"What happened?" he asked, despite his sore throat.

"You were stabbed, don't you remember?" he answered.

And when he thought about it, he did remember. He actually remembered it very clearly. Mary had kidnapped him on Moriarty's orders and he had been held hostage for weeks until Sherlock had been stupid enough to show up. Then Mary had stabbed him. He didn't say all of this, of course. He just nodded, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"You've been unconscious for three days, completely unacceptable." Sherlock said, trying (but not really) to make him guilty. "Mycroft had tracked me without my knowledge and some of his puppets stormed the building just as you lost consciousness. They were both arrested and have been moved to some secret base that isn't supposed to exist, Mycroft dealt with it.."

 

John felt himself succumb to sleep again. Sherlock saw and made a move to get up, but John dragged him down on the bed again. After some struggle, they were both comfortable. John enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock close to him. It made im feel grounded, safe. With that thought, he drifted away to a dreamless sleep.

\-----

The next time he woke up, he felt cold. Sherlock wasn't there and when le looked out of the window, the dark sky gave him the reason. He pressed a button, calling for a nurse. She fretted over him for far longer than he thought necessary until she finally handed him his chart. Apparently, he had been incredibly lucky. If the knife had hit him just an inch in another direction, it would have hit his intestines.

Not really knowing what else to do, he tried to go back to sleep.

\-----

He stayed in the hospital for a total of 8 days. The 5 last days (where he was fully awake) were spent trying to get Sherlock to eat and the two of them not talking about The Incident. Sherlock grew very quiet if it was mentiomed so John had avoided it too.

Sherlock was always beside him from the moment they let him in until he was thrown out by some irritating nurse that he offended on his way out. That always made John laugh. He had missed the deductions and their humor and he couldn't wait to get back to normal life. Well, as normal as it got in Sherlock's company.

 

====

 

They walked up the stairs of 221B together, Sherlock was supporting most of John's weight. John had been angry with him and he wasn't sure why. He had saved his life for Christ's sake.

But honestly, he didn't want to talk about what had happened. John had quickly realised and stopped asking but he knew that they had to talk about it at some point. Their friendship had endured a lot, but miscommunication could very well be the end of it. It nearly had been on multiple occasions.

Now, he was helping John sit down in his chair and making some tea. John liked tea, maybe it would make him less angry.

 

Two days went by, the tea didn't help. In fact, John seemed to be bursting with anger towards something. But it wasn't just anger. Worry? 'Hard to tell, need more data'.

The turning point came that very afternoon. John was typing (with two fingers, seriously?) something on his computer when he suddenly slammed it shut and stood up.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

'Shit, should I walk away? Can I walk away? Do I want to walk away?' His internal battle was interrupted by John.

"Why? Why were you so reckless? You could have been killed! Don't you think I have spent enough time worrying about you?"

What? Was that it? John's anger had been directed at Sherlock's want to protect John? At his carelessness trying to do so? He opened his mouth and closed it again. Not sure how to respond.

"Don't you think you have almost died enough times to save my life?"

"What else should I have done?! Nothing? Should I have left you there, knowing I could save you? Do you really think I could live with that?" He hadn't meant to say all of that. It just sort of came tumbling out.

"I don't want you to risk your life for mine! Why do you?!"

"Because I love you!"

He felt his face heat up and he closed his eyes. Not able to meet Johns. He didn't want to hear it, John trying to let him down easily. He would break. John was going to leave now. He had scared him away and he was going to disappear and it was all Sherlock's fault. He had destroyed everything.

He turned to escape to his room when he was stopped by a hand on his arm. 

"Look at me." He wanted to ignore John. To run away and never come back. But when John asked something in that voice, he could never deny him. That soft, almost pleading voice. He slowly turned around, tears burning in his eyes. John looked at him, just looked. Not like he usually did but with so much more. His gaze was filled with happiness, relief and love. So much that it made Sherlock sway where he stood. 

John took a step towards him and raised a hand to place it on his cheek. He wiped away a tear that had escaped and Sherlock leaned into the touch. John's eyes were shiny when he spoke.

"I.." he tried again. "You don't seem to understand why I don't want you to risk your life for me. You don't seem to understand that the only way for my life to be good, is with you in it. And I realise I should have told you a long time ago but, I love you too."

Tears were running down his cheeks now and a sob escaped his throat as John's arms circled him. John's hands were tangled in his hair and massaging his scalp. When he finally stopped shaking, John pulled away. But not very far, he was still holding him. He reached up towards Sherlock's face again and wiped away more tears.

"I hope you understand.." he started, suddenly looking serious. "..that I can't do this for just a little while. If we do this, you need to know that I'm in it for the long haul."

He nodded, not yet trusting his own voice. But John smiled and asked "Can I.. Eh, can I kiss you?".

He nodded again, feeling very stupid. But in a few seconds, that didn't matter what so ever because John's lips were on his and he tasted like salt and happiness and everything good in the world.

When they couldn't ignore the need for air any longer they broke apart.

"Okay?" John asked, looking uncertain. He immediately decided that he would rid him of that expression as quickly as possible. By kissing him.

At some point they moved to the sofa. He didn't know how or when, but they did. At another point, they decided to get takeaway. John called a Chinese place and attempted to order while Sherlock kept adding things. Just because he knew that it irritated him.

In no time, they were curled up on the sofa together in front of a bad movie with food all over the table. He actually ate which seemed to surprise John, judging by all of the content glances. But when the food was gone and the movie had almost an hour left he felt lost.

There was too much space between them for his liking, but maybe that was how John wanted it? He was too shy and nervous to ask or move closer. John seemed to notice that something was wrong so he inched closer and pulled Sherlock towards him, his head on John's chest.

"Stop thinking. You can have whatever you want, just ask." he said. Maybe to calm Sherlock's pounding heart and even if that wasn't his intention, it was working He started to doze off but woke quickly when John shifted.

"I'm thinking, that sleep would be very good right now. Agree?" John said.

But Sherlock got nervous again. He really wanted John to stay in his room, but if John wanted to keep sleeping upstairs he wouldn't want to hear the question. But he didn't have to ask, John did that for him.

"Do you think.. I mean would it be okay if.. I just.."

"Spit it out John." he said with a touch (or maybe a heap) of fondness, trying desperatly to conceal his nervousness.

"Can I sleep in your room tonight? Just sleep?"

"Of course you can." he answered, smiling up at John.

 

They rose from the sofa and while John changed upstairs, Sherlock did the same in his room. He normally didn't sleep in clothes, but he dressed in a t-shirt and trousers anyway.

When teeth were brushed, doors locked and windows closed they found themselves in Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock thought that he had never been this happy. Careful not to touch John's healing wound, he placed himself on his chest. John started to fiddle with his hair again but as he seemed to like it and as Sherlock absolutely loved it, he didn't comment. He just sighed and put his hand on top of John's (the one not in his hair) and when John linked their fingers together, kissed him on the head and whisper 'I love you' he felt whole. All of his broken and cracked pieces started to glue themselves back together. Were pieces were missing, John took up the space and claimed it as his. All of that in his bed, that smelled like both John and him.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Sherlock woke up from a nightmare. But John just hugged him to his chest, stroke his head and lulled him back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, this has been a ride.  
> Thank you SO much to all of you that have followed this fic! Only one chapter left, wich will be full to the brim with fluff (because our boys deserve it and no one can convince me otherwise).
> 
> This is the first fic and the first real story that I am writing and publishing ever, so thank you for all of the kudos and comments. You are all fantastic!


	9. This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy epilogue about Sherlock's birthday.

Life at 221B Bakerstreet was good. It was wonderfull actually.

Their relationship had been growing slowly but steadily. Trust had been rebuilt and enforced and the intimacy was easier.

The baby was being cared for by it's biological father who (with Mycroft's help) had gotten full custody.

As soon as Mary and Moriarty had been imprisoned, Mycroft had sent out people to destroy the very last pieces of the network. Eliminating the very last threats.

Mrs. Hudson was in a splendid mood. She hummed, baked and cleaned ("I'm not your houskeeper though!").

This day, she had locked all doors in an attempt to keep Sherlock out. This day, you see, was not any other day. It was Sherlock's birthday. He had tried to ignore it, but John had asked their landlady to bake some gingernuts (one of Sherlock's personal favourites) and try to keep it hidden from him. She had shone up at his words and started immediately.

He had called Lestrade begging for a case, then he had pretended to be busy while almost pushing Sherlock out of the door. He had been confused and had only agreed to leave when given a proper goodbye-kiss.

So that's why John found himself booking a table at Angelo's, cleaning the flat and brewing tea at 3 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Sherlock should be home at any time now (Lestrade had just informed him that the case was solved) so he went into their bedroom and changed.

He didn't usually wear the blue cashmere jumper that brought out the colour of his eyes but he knew for a fact that Sherlock loved it. Which seemed to be enough reason to wear it today.

He went upstairs and retrieved the present he had hidden and placed it in Sherlock's chair just as he heard the door open.

 

=====

 

He slammed the door behind him. The case had been dreadfully boring and Anderson had been more stupid than usual. He was irritated and disappointed and the prospect of having to celebrate his birthday only made it worse. So it was with heavy steps that he entered the flat.

John was standing in the kitchen preparing 2 cups of tea, he was wearing that beautiful blue jumper and was swaying slowly to some music that Sherlock was sure he should recognise. He had styled his hair (that he had kept longer after Sherlock had implied that he would look good in it) with more care than usual and he got an unexplainable urge to reach out and run his fingers through it to make it all messy.

John seemed to ignore him until he was finished with the tea and turned around. When he pressed a cup into Sherlock's hands and kissing his cheek whispering 'Happy birthday, love' Sherlock smiled for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

But John moved away, grabbed Sherlock's hand and moved them to the sofa. They talked for a long time. About the case, about old cases, about Sherlock's hate for his own birthday. And Sherlock told him about his 8th birthday when he got Readbeard and about his 13th birthday when he was taken away from him.

A long time later, John stood up and dragged Sherlock with him. He picked up a small box wrapped in gray paper from Sherlock's chair and handed it to him. Sherlock sighed and opened his mouth to say something when John interrupted him.

"No, don't say anything. Just open it."

He looked away from John and did as he said. Inside it was a key. No special key, just an ordinary looking, boring key. But when he looked back at John for answers, all he found was that beautiful smile. The one that made his eyes sparkle and his nose crinkle and he found himself wanting to kiss that smile. But when he raised his eyebrows John finally spoke.

"It goes to the archives at Scotland yard. I got permission from Greg to let you have it. You can solve any cold case you want."

Sherlock didn't know what to say so he just smiled back at John, pulled him towards himself and crushed their lips together.  
John hummed and only broke the kiss to wisper "I'll take that as a thank you then." before he leaned back in.

Sherlock pushed up against him, needing as much contact as possible. He needed to show how grateful he was, how much he loved the man in front if him. To claim him and be claimed in return.

John still tased like everything good in the world, with a faint hint of tea but there was something else. He couldn't put his finger on it,  but he liked it. He thought it tasted a bit like Christmas. 'Why on earth whould it taste like Christmas? Oh!'

"Gingernuts?" he blurted out. John stilled and his lips were stretched into a smile.

"I wondered how long it would take before you figured it out. Mrs. Hudson baked some while you were away. They're in the kitchen."

He took a step back to regard John properly. He mimicked his smile before walking into the kitchen. He stuffed his mouth with 2 of them and brought the plate back to John. John tilted his face upwards in that way that suggested he wanted a kiss. But Sherlock just gave him a quick peck before shoving a biscuit into John's mouth.

"Thank you." he said, waiting patiently (or, not very) for John to swallow before kissing him again.

 

They spent the afternoon in the flat. Watching movies, cuddling, eating gingernuts and having sex. A very perfect birthday in Sherlock's opinion.

When the clock ticked closer to 7, John managed to talk Sherlock into putting on something nice without revealing where they were going. Not an easy task when it's the world's only consulting detective you have to persuade.

But the world's only consulting detective happened to be more curious than a 5 year old, to John's advantage.

 

John gave the cabbie a note with the adress (to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't figure out their destination just yet) which earned him an angry and intrigued look from Sherlock.

 

A few blocks from Angelo's, Sherlock's face lit up with understanding and joy as he figured it out.

"Are we going to Angelo's?" he asked. Turning to John. He just smiled and squeezed their joined hands. Sherlock returned the gestures and kept looking at John. His John. He had a feeling that today might even get a tiny bit better, if possible.

 

Dinner was fantastic. John asked Angelo for a candle, wearing a very proud look on his face. It made Sherlock feel warm inside and he couldn't contain a small smile.

The conversations flowed with ease and he found himself thinking that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with anyone else. Before, he thought that he might survive for a few years before an overdose (accidental or intentional) claimed his life. He hadn't thought much about growing old. But when they were old, maybe John would like to move to Sussex. Maybe to keep bees. He made a mental note to ask him some day.

 

When they got back to the flat, John was all over him. Kissing, biting, caressing. They ended up in their bed (The bedroom that used to belong to Sherlock) after some time.  
After, when they had settled (Sherlock's head in the crook of John's neck and John's arms around him) they talked.

They talked about hard things, like Sherlock's time away or Mary, and easy things, like what they wanted to do tomorrow or aboute some case.

"Bees." Damn, he wasn't supposed to say it now. Oh well.

"Sorry what?"

"Bees. When I retire, I'd like to move to Sussex and keep bees. Care to come with me?"

John was quiet for a while until he said "Sounds perfect, love." and kissed the top of his head.

And with that, they started to fall asleep. "I love you's" were exchanged and before the darkness claimed them, Sherlock wispered "Love you John. My John.". That earned him another kiss on his head and he thought 'Yes, this is it. I will keep this.'.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done!  
> A huge thank you to all of the people leaving kudos and commenting.
> 
> This is the end I want for our boys. I want them healed and happy. So I'm going to stay in the fandom, ignore s4 and write the version that I want. That is why I love writing so much, I can do what I want.
> 
> I hope this chapter made you smile! <3
> 
> (I did put some things from s4 in here. Gingernust for example, but only because I found it adorable)


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